Novelties
by orkestrzhopa
Summary: A collection of Spy vs Spy ficlets, too short to be their own stories but enough for now. Spanning both personal takes and something resembling canon. Mayhaps fluffy, oft-times violent, and all focusing on Black and White and maybe even sometimes Grey.
1. Nothing is Permanent

You might think that was the end of that. That Black fucked White and just left him in that chair. That he just walked away…

Right?

But that's not how the story ended. It wouldn't be a very good story then. At least, not one worth telling.

Black fucked White, yes, he even came and it was _wonderful_, having his rival at his mercy. A gun to White's lips, a whispered command and the other man opened his mouth.

_Slowly_, like the fucking tease Black knows he is. 

The barrel of his revolver slid in _so easily_ and if the sight tore White's throat, if he couldn't help grinding his abused cock into Black's knee, _hate_ and _lust_ clear in his eyes...

Well all the better for the story!

But maybe… you think that's _all_?

Maybe it never crossed your mind that White gave that gun the blow job of its life, that Black could feel it almost as if it was _his_ cock White was sucking. And when the other spy's tongue wrapped around steel like that, almost and then brushing his fingers, when the teeth scraping the barrel felt as if they were abusing _him_ it was all Black could do to keep his knees from buckling, from collapsing on top of White.

Maybe…

Maybe you know that.

But did you know that White came, back arched and biting down on warmed metal? That Black, at that same moment, pulled the trigger? That he stayed in that same position for a long time and that when he pulled his revolver from his dead rival's mouth, when the blood spilled down White's still-warm, bruised lips, Black kissed him?

That, however, may be a lie.

Black could not possibly have kissed White. Could not have licked the blood off reddened lips, couldn't have touched his lips to White's cheek in a gentle kiss and backed so slowly away, eyes fixed on the corpse. On the mark he'd left, the bloody kiss. The next day, he couldn't have stared at the other spy's cheek, the same one he'd so briefly touched, wondering where his mark had gone.

He _couldn't_ have.

Not because he lied to himself and not because he'd forgotten. Not even because he tried to deny it. He didn't. What would be the point?

No, Black could not have done any of these things for a very _simple_ reason.

A White spy with a bloodstained revolver in his lap and an unsuspecting rival. At midnight - the beginning of a _new day_.

Because, as we all know… in comics, no injury, no matter how _grievous_, lasts longer than that.


	2. Change

Once, they'd been normal.

Little baby spies, just starting in their ways. White was White and Black was Black and that was the only way it could be. Then

they'd met, and nothing changed.

Standard operating procedure. Mission first, extras later.

A laugh here, a humiliation there, and gradually, bit by bit by bit, they started investing time and effort and then

a death, and nothing changed again.

A trap here, a torture session there and they ran into each other purposely, eager to win the next round, and the next and the next and then

a night together, and nothing really changed.

A push here _don't mind the firing line_, a pull there _that's not a bulldozer what a silly idea_, and they planned and schemed and there was always a Black and a White, a White and a Black, and maybe both or none all at the same time.


	3. Uniform

They're pretty much the same person.

The first time it fucked with both their heads, not remembering or caring which was which. The second time was easier and by the third they'd forgotten who they'd been originally. What drove it home was when Black, forced into civvies, had become White. And then there were two.

They'd fucked that night, hard and fast, reveling in novelty, and it wasn't much different than it had always been. No telling them apart except the clean-shaven face of the one who was White first. No enemy spy here.

Next morning there was a White blowing up his embassy and a White cursing his short-lived ally.

Black received honors from his nation.

White rubbed his stubbled cheek clean of blood, and swore.


	4. Mess

Sometimes either or both get bored with black and white and grey and want just that little bit of color.

When one disappears the other wonders, rejoices, schemes, sulks, and finally searches. It never ends well for the found, with knives and poisons and waking up screaming at damage that's long gone to the previous night.

When both disappear they always meet somewhere, somehow. There's no grand plot, no trap. Just chance, or maybe something higher. And when they run into each other there is always memory and intricate plans that forever devolve to a bloody, dirty mess, fists and teeth and whatever works for however long it takes to satisfy.

When they're content _one or both or none at all_ at the end or the beginning of the day they're back again to monochrome, always sometimes getting bored.


	5. Progress

Their well-laid plans always seem to hit a snag or three along the way. A beautiful grey spy, a rival, sometimes the very environment itself conspires against them. But they always prevail, somehow, if not on that attempt then on the next, and it's an endless cycle of hurt and revenge and never-ending strife, where one is never greater than his other and each loses to that mix of them both.

xxx

Sometimes it's a fleeting touch, an absentminded gesture that impacts him far more than any grand violent gambit. The hint of a smirk, a crinkling in the corners of the eyes, memory of times past that brings fond smiles and shared laughter.

xxx

And other times it's not enough, a gesture or a faint smile. Sometimes only flesh and blood under his nails will satisfy, that chance meeting in a trash-strewn alley, mission conflict. Back slammed against dirty brick, teeth and knife at his neck, ripped uniform, blood and saliva for lube.

He's scratched and scraped bloody, bruised and aching afterwards, broken nose and knuckles wet with blood. Maybe he's still breathing, maybe he's the one who lost that time. Either way, exhilarating, and each time he remembers he has to sneak a hand under the waistband of his neatly pressed uniform trousers, bring himself off hard and fast, eyes closed and seeing black and red and white.

xxx

Then there is deliberation, torture turned sexual. Tongue and toys, caresses instead of bruised ribs and knives stained with the target's blood. It's slow, then, sneaking up on him from out of nowhere with soft leather and padded cuffs. Comfort.

Days, maybe weeks, in a haze, not even pondering escape. There's no hurry here, a leisurely pace. A break of sorts, and maybe that's why it feels like so long.

Warmth and silk-smooth sheets, worn leather and skin on skin. Fingers, toys, cock stretching him wide when he's tied to a bed. Perhaps a wall, a nice break from grimy brick. Splayed across a lap, spreader bar and shackles keeping him locked in place.

Conditioning, gradual, and is it really worth it to resist?

Maybe at some point he looks, really _looks_, at what's moving so deliciously inside him, and doesn't think he'll ever be able to close his legs again. The idea is perhaps not as terrifying as it should be and he shares, taking care to shape the words properly. Shivers, catches his lip between his teeth at a vicious twist and in too much hurt to come but wanting it so badly.

He won't get it, not for a while yet, and he thinks he's more than a little satisfied with the arrangement.


End file.
